maybe it's not my weekend
by another moment gone
Summary: one-shot. shuffle challenge-thingy. "but it's gonna be my year." *R&R*  -another moment gone-


**m a y be it 's not m y week e n d**

_**-:-**_

_(but it's gonna be my year.)

* * *

_

_**The Shuffle Challenge**_

Here is what to do:  
1) Choose a specific pairing/fandom/etc as your topic.  
2) Put your **iPod**/Media Player/CD/iPhone on shuffle.  
3) As each song starts, write the title of the song and the singer/band,  
and then begin writing about your subject. You only have the length of  
the song to finish, though. Once the song ends, so do you. No exceptions.  
4) Most importantly, HAVE FUN!

* * *

-:-

**I Won't; **colbie caillat

He left only fourteen days ago, two weeks ago to be exact, about four hours ago and twenty minutes ago; but who's counting anyway?

It's not like his brown eyes are haunting your mind, racking and single-handedly _ripping_ you apart. It's not even like the idea of his previous presence is causing you to have the extreme urge to rip your hair, single piece by piece, out.

It's just not the lonesome fact that you miss him, (so damn much.)

It's probably the fact that when he left, he only gave you his stupid Yankees signature hat; the hat he wore when he kissed you with heated cheeks, the hat he wore when he brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, brown eyes locking to yours. It's the fucking fact he left you with his hat and he got to keep the one thing you wouldn't have chosen to give him.

You're stupid heart.

Who cares if you're sixteen? Who cares if you're the age every little girl dreams to be?

He's gone and you're still left with his hat.

-:-

* * *

**We change, we wait; **the maine

You were minding your own business, as usual, sitting with your friends and the Tomahawk boys in the cafeteria at table #18. You were simply chewing on your signature PB&J (screw the fact that you're seventeen, okay?) when Derek Harrington _stops _babbling like his idiotic self, (just once) to stop and stare at the entrance way.

Because clichés have always been your forte, at least it wasn't an _I need to faint_ experience; it was mindfully and half-expected that he would be standing in the entrance way, hatless.

You can't help but _gaze/_scrutinize/stare like some crazy girl. You just can't rip your eyes from that entrance way with the boy with the wavy brown hair, brown eyes.

The nerve of that Yankee's fan boy.

Where'd his hat go? (oh that's right—_you _have it.)

He didn't buy a new one?

Flurries of thoughts were swooshing in your head but the one thing that was very clear was that Josh Hotz was back.

And that meant so was your heart.

(but you'd like to keep his hat.)

-:-

* * *

**Seventeen forever; **metro station

It doesn't hurt to smile, you think blissfully as he kisses your cheek. It certainly doesn't _pain_ you to laugh when he tickles you, and it definitely doesn't kill you to accept his apology gift: a charm to add to your collection.

Of course the charm was a hat; which solemnly reminded you of the hat tucked away, collecting dust, in the back of your walk-in closet. You hadn't touched that thing in months.

Thanks to Massie's wake-up call (or a verbal slap to the face) you woke up from your trance and shook your tresses free of Joshua Hotz (for the time-being.)

The shitty coincidence of his return was the same day, a year ago, that he left.

Surprise, surprise; look who lost count now.

* * *

-:-

**The great escape; **boys like girls

No doubt on your eighteenth birthday do you realize what you really truthfully want in life: a not-so-stable life, why of course.

He's definitely different from a year of Hotchkiss. That school was rumored to home crazy alcoholics, true partiers, and sincere bitches.

But Josh (was) an exception (you'd like to think.)

You two soak the day away, the car whooshing past the autumn shaded leaves, the breath of fresh air lapping at your skin, tousling your hair aside; a soft small smile playing on your lips.

Your grin stretched when he grabbed your hand and twined his fingers with your smaller fingers.

"I love you," he promised, shouting over the noise of the window.

"I know," you agree without another word.

* * *

-:-

**Six feet under the stars; **all time low

Everyone knew an ending would come, but who the hell said it had to come now? At this very moment in time?

Hotchkiss might as well be damned to hell. Seriously, (you were considering have Len Rivera sue Hotchkiss for its awful influence and corruption over its students.)

Josh Hotz (was no exception.)

You actually did manage to rip chunks of your hair out, pure frustration and agony rippling through your body.

"He doesn't have a drinking problem," you repeat your words to Kristen for the hundredth time that day. The blonde snorts half-heartedly, not taking you seriously.

"You're delusional," she concludes with wise sky blue eyes, nodding out the window.

"I swear, Kris," you said earnestly. "He's fine."

* * *

-:-

**Painting flowers; **all time low

The news comes through your enV (third generation) cell-phone. The call lasts an exact thirty one seconds.

Adriana Hotz wasn't one for many words.

The funeral's short and to the point (just the way he'd want it) and his parents greet you with wide arms and tear-stained cheeks. Adriana, his beautiful young sister, hugs you for a brief moment and you simply stroke her hair.

But hey, at least everyone knows now.

Josh Hotz is a fucking alcoholic.

But you're a heroin addict.

(at least that's clear now, considering he is—_was _your drug. Your very own brand of heroin, burning the insides of your mouth, clouding up your rational side, and sending swirls of nervous-child-like butterflies to your tummy.)

you're a child. (some things just don't change.)

* * *

-:-

**Me, you, and my medication; **boys like girls

It actually doesn't cause a jaw of yours to drop when it happens. It seriously doesn't take you by the shoulders, shake you (rattling your entire body) or make you jump in utter confusion and shock.

It just happens, you suppose.

A new boy, brown wavy hair (similar) and brown**brown** eyes, a solemn look gracing his masculine features. But you hardly notice the way his smile is nice, or the fact that he's eying you a little long. You just notice his hat.

Redsox.

You look away without another word, ignoring the fact that the Yankee's hat sitting on top of your head is itching and burning your scalp.

You push the brim of the hat down.

-:-

One-shot. Please review.

-another moment gone-


End file.
